Gunfire Suns and Rivers of Blood
by NightlySnow
Summary: D-Day, Battle of the Hedgerows, Battle of the Bulge. The fight to reclaim fortress Europe from the greedy fingers of one of the world's most notorious dictators. Four men, Matthew, Francis, Arthur, and Alfred, all of them different nationalities, are a small part of the bigger picture. But it's these small parts that make Operation Overlord possible. UKUS, Franada. M for violence.
1. D-Day, Jour-J

Hello all. So I was swept with this sudden inspiration to write about D-Day, from the perspectives of our much beloved Francis, Arthur, Matthew, and Alfred. I figured that, if I was going to do that, I might as well turn this into a sort of story about WWII. I'm going to do my absolute best to stay true to fact, I promise you, and if you notice anything off, please do tell me. I want to remain as accurate as possible in retelling something this serious, and this emotional.

_**Attention**_

I realize that some of you may have seen this chapter accompanied by another one, but I decided that I'm going to take this story in a different direction than I had the second chapter. I have four viewpoints to tell here, and the second chapter, the one concerning the Battle of the Bulge, wasn't going to help where I wanted to take this. So, I decided to split them. This is the one that is going to be continued into however many chapters it takes to get to the end of the war in Europe. The other one, _A Silent Night of Frozen Fingertips_, will remain a oneshot.

_Disclaimer: I do not own the Hetalia franchise, so the vast majority of characters that appear in this work are not of my making. Any real people mentioned are exactly that; real people. The only thing I own is the words that I knit together to write this._

* * *

**D-Day, Jour-J**

_The world must know what happened, and never forget._

**-General Eisenhower**

* * *

D-Day was different for Arthur and Alfred, Francis and Matthew.

Alfred came ashore with the American troops on Omaha.

Arthur was a commando in the British forces attacking Gold.

Francis was on Sword Beach, with other French commandos.

And Matthew was with the Canadian Battalions on Juno.

All four had completely different experiences.

Alfred was a part of the first wave of men who were rushing the beach. He could hear the coxswain swear quietly under his breath. Those hushed words had Alfred aching to peer over the tall sides of the LCVP that was taking him and his fellow soldiers to France. He couldn't possibly see what could be so bad about getting off of the blasted thing, as his feet were planted in the throw-up of the other men on the boat, he was bailing water and that morning's breakfast with his helmet, the sea-foam was blasting down on him, and he was pretty sure that his sides were completely and utterly battered from being slammed into other men, and the heavy metal side of the Higgins Boat. His hundred pounds of gear was also beginning to weigh heavily on his shoulders. All in all, this had been no pleasure ride, and Alfred wanted off. The other men in his boat group were of the same opinion as him and they began to pressure their coxswain to just 'land the damn boat already.'

The British coxswain really was taking his time, though this was more because he was seeing what was happening to the LCVPs to the left and right of him. Mines were hit, boats were blown sky high, or they'd finally let down their ramp, and all the men would be dead in the first five seconds. Needless to say, the coxswain didn't want this to happen to himself or the men on his Higgins boat, so he was taking his time finding a good spot. There was always the risk of mines, though, and he couldn't exactly avoid all the machine gun fire.

Eventually the boy, Richard was his name, just gave up and ploughed into the beach as close as he dared, holding his breath the entire time, and dropped the ramp. The first few soldiers who leapt off were immediately fell into the trough that the coxswain had been so kind to let the door out just in front of. Richard had chosen the wrong spot, but he was far too concerned for his own safety to pull away and find a better one, choosing instead to yell at the rest of the now protesting men to just get off.

And really, they had no choice. Machine gun fire was pockmarking the area around their LCVP and ploughing directly into it, scraping along the sides and burying into the warm flesh of the stagnant men.

Alfred shoved his way through the huddle, but fell sideways off of the ramp, a move that could very well have saved his life that day, splashing fantastically into the water next to the boat. Immediately, he was drowning, unable to swim under the weight of all the equipment loaded on his shoulders. He began to tear off the heavier items. The flame thrower was gone, so was his rifle, and other things. By the time he dragged his sorry, water-logged ass on shore, he was bereft of most of his offensive equipment. His helmet was still on his head, luckily enough, but his gun was at the bottom of the English Channel, and he could only assume that that's where the rest of his stuff was.

At the moment, he only had a few hand grenades with him. Not that he had much time to check what he still had left to fight with, as the minute his feet hit sand, he was being shot at. One bullet tore through the flesh of his thigh, leaving him gasping and gritting his teeth to try to quell a scream of pain. Slowly, he began to move, walking as fast as he could and zigzagging and falling and slipping and tripping and crawling, and scrabbling at the sand, getting it in his mouth, eyes, hair, breath rasping, fear dominating. Anything to avoid getting shot. Stepping over bodies, stepping on bodies, throwing himself behind obstacles. He was pumped with adrenaline, but single-minded and of a narrow vision. He had to get to the cliff. That was his main target. The seawall would protect him; he'd be safe there.

He'd given his glasses up before he even joined the army, as weak eyesight wasn't exactly something they were looking for in their soldiers. His eyesight wasn't horrendously poor, but he had certain trouble navigating. This lack of motor skills was affecting him tremendously now.

Once more he threw himself behind one of the obstacles on the beach that were keeping boats from beaching. It was known as a "Hedgehog" and it would tear into the hull of whichever unfortunate naval vessel happened to roll over it during high tide. As he was hiding there, he finally allowed himself to calm and take a breath. His legs were trembling with exhaustion, and he was pretty sure that his face was pale, his eyes wild with an instinct to protect himself. The sand was sticking to every bit of him, under his fingernails, over his hands, throat, face. And as he watched other disembark, he realized how lucky he was.

The men getting off of LCVPs were being mowed down as soon as the doors dropped. Machine gun fire veritably flew in, selecting its targets with the cocky knowledge that it was going to hit at least someone. Those few men who would survive that hurdle were almost always targeted as soon as they hit the beach. The many DD tanks that were left in crippling remains on the sand were hindering and aiding several of the soldiers. Nothing was getting accomplished, it was complete mayhem, and men were falling right and left. Screams of pain echoed out as their forms bent in uncomfortable, unnatural ways, arching back to slam into the sand after being rammed with machine gun bullets. Some men were ripped open, others were quietly taken out. The few that made it to the seawall were being targeted by mortar rounds. His comrades were falling around him, their bodies slumping in awkward shapes and piles on the sticky sand. Some of them were still alive, jerking and blubbering about the need to get their helmets, or their guns, which lay yards from their owners. Blood would bubble in rivers, pushing through the backs of their teeth, clumping at the bases of throats, or matting in sweat and seawater dampened hair.

Alfred slid further into the sand, burying his face in it. He realized that he was crying, sobbing, gut wrenching things that had him aching for air, safety, comfort, his home. He wanted away from warfare, away from the Krauts, off of the beach. Anything to be safe. No tears were coming, just sound, the terrifying resonance of someone on the verge of sanity. He couldn't get enough air, he was curling in on himself, gripping and tearing at his sand-logged hair. Another dead soldier dropped near him. His head was gone. Alfred wanted to die.

After about five minutes of this, Alfred managed to regroup himself. His chest hurt, pressing down on him, but he had come to the realization that he couldn't get out. The only way out, was in. He had to get past that damned seawall, because if he died there, he had a higher chance of dying here. And the only way to do that was to move. So he looked about, found the dead soldier, blood staining the sand around him, with his cold fingers wrapped around a .30-caliber rifle.

Alfred made a quick decision. He was crawling forward, wrenching the rifle out of the man's still soft grip, and beginning to crawl and towards the seawall, hearing the bullets snapping and whizzing about him. Christ must have been with him, as he was not hit. He slid against that cliff, crashing into a couple of other soldiers who were huddling there.

Some of the injured had been towed into the temporary haven as well, the medics that had survived were going around tending to them with what little they had in the way of supplies. Some of their injuries were grotesque. Faces were missing, eyes gone and in their places, a bloody, mucusy mess. Their hands were ripped apart, their arms just unfortunate strings of flesh. Their legs didn't exist, or they were missing one, or their feet were gone. Numerous injuries that Alfred couldn't list were decorating these men in permanent badges.

It was these sorry souls that had Alfred determined to get up that seawall, if it killed him. And it most likely would. Turning to the wire coated rocks, he swept his gaze over the men who could still function properly, aside from the fear and lack of order that was confusing them. Though he may just be a private, Alfred figured that he could do this. He could organize something, at least. He called for an engineer who had the equipment necessary for blowing the barbed wire on the shingle that was blocking further progress up. The man leapt forward and did just as asked, after which, with a renewed sense of purpose, he went about blowing up obstacles on the beach until he was taken out by machine gun fire.

The men, having seen this small amount of progress, began to flock behind Alfred, fresh determination marking their faces. Not all were for going up that cliff, closer to German fire, but the few that were was enough for Alfred. He began to take them up the sea wall, avoiding as many thick patches of wire as he could. As soon as they got past that, though, they had a swamp and beach expanse replete with mines to get past. And Alfred wasn't quite sure how they were supposed to work through that without getting themselves blown sky high. Eventually, he pulled a small trench knife out and began to hesitantly probe forward. The mines weren't always conspicuous. About ten other men were trailing behind him, doing their own probing with different equipment pieces. No one had made it ashore with their original rifle, and few other useful pieces of equipment existed on any of their persons. And so they continued moving. One man was trailing tape behind them, marking the so far clear trail that they were making.

Then one of the men closer to the back hit a mine. He stepped on it, thinking that the way was clear, as his buddy had gone through the area just before him. Within seconds, the only parts of him left were limbs. The men were spaced far enough out for this one explosion to not really affect anyone else, but it was still nerve wracking. That one event was starting to wear even more at the men's already fraying nerves. Their breaths were close and shaky, their weapons trembling, and their muscles tensed and quivering from constantly being used.

The men were tired, and they were getting sloppier. One more of their group was lost before they made it to the German trenches, and even once there, they had to drop as bullets whizzed over their heads. Machine gun nests were all over the place, most concentrated on the beach. And so, Alfred decided that they had to start taking some out.

He rushed the first one after two failed attempts at shooting from a distance. Taking one of his five grenades, he chucked it into the little opening and listened to the satisfying boom that emanated from inside the concrete emplacement. The other men, emboldened by their new leader's movements, began to strike out in their own directions, some getting hit, and others managing to either take prisoners or destroy. And as all of this was going on, more men from the bottom joined them, led by Sergeants, and Officers, and even other Noncoms. Things were beginning to change. Tides were turning, destroyers were starting to take down the gun emplacements along the sides of the cliffs around Omaha, the 88mm weapons being taken out successfully, but slowly. By the time those trenches were cleaned out, other men were making headway up, off of the beach. D-Day on Omaha was almost over, but the American troops had finally completed their mission of securing the beachhead.

But now that the adrenaline rush was falling from Alfred's mind, the pain of his thigh injury was beginning to take full attention. He'd done even more damage by moving around with the bullet still embedded in his leg, and it was now dangerously close to his artery, having worked its way further into its victim. A medic noticed the bleeding soldier and moved over to help him, checking the injury and urging Alfred to get down to an LCVP to be carted back to the major ships and then taken back to England.

Alfred wasn't having any of that. He wanted to finish this war, and he'd be damned if a flesh wound stopped him. "Just take it out and bandage it up, doc," he told him, teeth gritted. The medic looked at him a moment before sighing and doing as told. They tried to be as gentle as they could, but of course it was an incredibly uncomfortable and painful experience for Alfred, and by the time the medic was done, he was pretty sure he'd invented a couple of new swear words. Sweat was dripping from every pore, darkening his blond locks and sliding into his bluer-than-blue eyes.

The end of the day rolled around, and Alfred settled into a foxhole with a group of men who were from all over Omaha; Fox Red, Fox Green, Easy Red, coxswains off of LCVPs, and so on and so forth. They were a motley group, but they had all survived. They had gotten past D-Day. They were scheduled to get to the Vierville draw, or any many of other goals, but the only one they'd secured that day was the beachhead.

Vehicles still littered the beach, blown tanks, tanks that didn't work, broken down jeeps. Bodies cluttered the sand. But the American troops had prevailed. Omaha beach was the bloodiest beach on D-Day, the German fortifications and fighting forces were not what the Allied forces expected. The air and sea bombardment that took place before the infantry were put on the beach was a waste. Nothing went according to plan. But it was the men's training, drive, and bravery that got them through the obstacles that were standing in their way. Eisenhower: 1, Hitler: 0.

* * *

On Gold beach, things were a bit different. The first things on shore were "Hobart's Funnies," the tanks that had some modifications to them that were meant to help the British soldiers take over Gold beach. And they did their job fantastically. The mine sweeper went straight to work. Then the engineers were dropped, and the infantrymen. Things were running like clockwork. Obstacles were being taken out, mines were being neutralized. There was little gunfire on the beach that day, and it was all doled out by the less-than-effective _Ost_ battalion, which was made up of POWs that Germany had taken from its fight with Russia in the East. These men, in that battalion, had no inclination to fight against the liberating Western troops. They wanted to be free. And so, they were more than pleased to be made prisoner when they got the chance to surrender.

By the time that Arthur hopped out of his LCT, the beach was pretty tame. Men were being dutifully unloaded, some were dying because of machine gun fire further up, but it was a surprisingly small amount at the end of the day. He trudged along the sand with the other men in his boat group, one hand looped in the strap of his rifle, which was still resting comfortably on his back. He honestly couldn't see a problem with getting shot and dying at this point. He was sick of this stupid war. The fresh boys in front of him were jumpy, twisting and turning everywhere they saw motion. Arthur almost felt a little sympathetic, but he supposed that was just the excitement of your first day at war.

The men at Gold had a smaller bluff to scale than Omaha, and with less opposition. They were making more progress towards their objective than their American counterparts. Arthur scaled it, head down as he walked miserably along. This really wasn't a very fascinating beach, not in his opinion. It wouldn't start getting interesting until they got to the German forces. By the time they were up the bluff and attacking the German troops, it was close to tea time. And, in fact, many soldiers did stop to have their everyday break, brewing tea in whatever manner possible to them. They had already gotten off the beach, and in the minds of many, that was more than enough work for one day.

Arthur was no exception. He'd fought in Africa. He knew the pain of war, and he was not interested in hurtling headlong into yet another one. So he took more than enough time to make and sip at his tea. He watched the younger, more excited men hopping around him, eager to mow down some Jerries. But they weren't to have a lot of luck today, not just yet.

After the mandatory tea time, Arthur picked himself up and went along with the rest of his new platoon, finally switching to holding his rifle in an expert grip. The men he'd fought with in Africa had all either died, or been dispersed to other platoons to spread the experience around. A couple of tanks were accompanying them, as the seawall had been cleared quickly in the Gold Beach sector, and a road was being cleared for jeeps, while the hardier vehicles managed to get past on their own without assistance.

Hobart's Funnies quickly dealt with antitank ditches, and things were sliding along smoothly. Any fire taken by Germans was returned in equal force and with even more vigor. Many of the younger boys were very trigger happy, and Arthur was happy to say that he didn't have to fire a single bullet that day. Most of the Germans had been stationed in houses, and those houses had proven themselves to be very susceptible to air bombardment. Arthur's gem green eyes got to see some of the flaming craters that was left of those flammable houses, he got to step around cavities made by bombs that had been dropped. The air force had done their work on Gold Beach, and they'd done it expertly.

The day was pulling to a close, and few British troops had made it to their final objectives. But that was okay as well, because they'd gotten the beach.

Arthur had landed with the No. 47 Commando unit on Item sector of Gold beach. The unit's goal was to move ten miles east, take Port-en-Bessin, and link up with the American troops that would be there from Omaha. They chose to dig in on Hill 72, as the Longues-sur-Mer battery had halted them.

* * *

Juno beach was the job of the Canadians. And many of those men were itching to get revenge for Dieppe, where the Germans wiped nearly half of a combined task force of Canadian and British soldiers out.

When the door dropped on Matthew's LCVP, he and the other men rushed, screaming out; and then machine gun emplacements quickly mowed down most of them. Matthew was smart enough to drop, faceplanting into the sand. The gritty texture of the beach material raking at his skin as he very nearly lost it. The sand around him was practically weeping with dark blood, the fine crystals drinking in and crying out the substance.

Matthew will never know how he managed to pick himself up off of that nice, protective sand and fight his way to the seawall. But he did it. He was forced to walk, as the weight of water and his gear was keeping him from moving at an exceedingly fast pace. But when he arrived, he found a British commando unit there to greet him. Their job, once they got off of the beach, was to go link up with the British 3rd Infantry Division on Sword Beach.

When Matthew came slugging up to them, they exchanged looks before focusing back in on the sandy Canadian, his blond hair hanging in straggles about his face, and those innocent violet eyes peering blankly about. "You speak French?" one of them asked, voice gruff. Clearly these guys weren't fazed by the bullets whizzing around them. Matthew nodded slowly in response, wondering why they were even asking him. The men exchanged a look once more before one reached out, locking Matthew's forearm in his grip, and beginning to drag the sorry Canadian along as they moved inland. Evidently the machine gun bullets weren't going to impede these men from getting their objective done that day. Once they'd gotten mostly out of immediate harms way, the man dropped Matthew's arm.

"Eh, if you don't mind my asking," said Matthew, his voice soft and quiet, barely heard over the sounds of battle still echoing from the beach, "but, why are you taking me?"

The man, who seemed to have been ordained the leader after the ordeal, responded slowly, "Our Lieutenant Colonel's dead, and he's the only one who could speak French of the group of us."

Matthew looked around, noticing that there were only about fifteen or so men. "Ah, I see," was all he said in response, and then the group fell back into silence once more.

They were walking this way for some hours, pausing only for tea time. During this pause, Matthew found out that these men were veterans of the Dieppe incident. That would no doubt explain why they had no problem with walking directly towards the machine guns in interest of getting off of the beach. Their group had avoided the fight at WN27, or so it seemed, as more men began to filter past them, a good few covered in blood. Everyone quickly stood up, put their stuff back together, and trudged along with other soldiers of the No. 48 Commando and North Shore Regiment.

Then they reached Lagrune, where there was a good bit of resistance from the German forces. They had a 50mm gun in there, and they were using it exceptionally well.

Men were starting to scream, pain making blood flee from the cage of flesh it had been trapped in, arching like some liberated bird out of the dead or injured bodies. It was horrendous, and Matthew's first desire was to drop everything and run. Those bullets were hitting his allies more than they were missing.

But he couldn't do that, and so the Canadian stood and raised his gun, sighting and shooting at a German soldier in one of the house's windows. The Kraut disappeared and his gunfire seized. And in this way, the afternoon passed. It was turbulent, confusing, but coordinated in some efforts. But no one could breach that stronghold, and when word came out that the 21st Panzer Division was counter-attacking, the men settled in for the night, though few slept well. They were exhausted, but they were on edge, being so close to the enemy; a well-trained enemy, at that; not the contemptible _Ost_ Regiments.

Lagrune would eventually be taken on June 8. The link was connected, and there was finally an Anglo-Canadian line stretching from Sword to Gold.

* * *

Francis didn't have much trouble getting off of his LCT. There was very little resistance on the beach, and the combined British and French forces made quick use of securing the beachhead. Tanks were unloaded quickly, which had the unintended effect of clogging the beach. There was very little room for other vehicles to be dropped.

Not that Francis would know. He was a part of the No. 10 Commando, which landed with the No. 4. He was one of a group of about 176 French Marine Commandos who were all too happy to get their feet back on the soil of their homeland. Laughs bubbled out from their lips, uncharacteristic sounds in a war environment, and some even began to sing the national anthem, _La Marseillaise._

But their joy was short-lived. As soon as the troops got past the beach, they were met with thick patches of resistance.

The first heavily defended area Francis stumbled upon, they lost a few men. It was a nasty hornet's nest of Germans, and they all had some pretty nasty weapons at their disposal. Bullets were zipping, ringing, and biting; nipping at stray fingers, toes, ears, and legs, arms, guns. Anything they could get a taste of. A bullet nicked Francis's ear, buzzing past his long blond hair and burying into the ground just behind him. Warm red blood dripped down the side of the Frenchman's face, but he didn't notice. He didn't notice anything but the way those Jerries were sitting on France, his country, his home. Not theirs. They could get the fuck off it, and get their German asses far, far away, all the way back to Germany.

With a furious snarl, lips peeling back from his teeth in a feral grin, Francis began to fire furiously in response to that one threat, anger making him rash in his actions and choices. His muscles burned from clenching and moving and constantly, constantly tensing. He had to hold himself still and steady to get a proper shot going, one that had even a chance of burying itself in some Kraut's forehead.

Francis didn't notice the 21st Panzer tank regiment until big rounds began to hit his fellow soldiers. More blood was flying, though this time it was more French and British blood than it was German, and Francis was forced to abandon his offensive in favor of finding some form of a hiding place. This Panzer division, this specially trained pet of Hitler's, was vicious, and effective. Within seconds, the British and French halted their attack and ducked down, hid, avoided those crunching tank treads and lethal guns.

Francis couldn't say how long he spent fighting, how many men he killed. It was all hidden behind a blur of rage. A blur of teeth-gritting rage. He can remember the hatred, simmering, boiling, burning his lungs and chest, searing through his veins and pulling the trigger on his gun. But that's it. He can't remember much more than that.

The British and French forces from Sword Beach were forced to wait to take Caen until July 20. They received the only armored Panzer counterattack on D-Day.

* * *

So, what does everyone think? Did I do this day justice?

I know that a few of the point of views seem crazy, confusing, too quick, and not enough detail, or time to it. And others don't. Others seem organized.

But I did that on purpose. Alfred's is disjointed, a mess of words and letters, and that's because this is his first time in actual battle. Everything's going to be different, scary, and confusing, especially on the hell of Omaha beach.

Arthur, on the other hand, was more calm, and collected. Things were simple, laid out, and described with precision and with a removed sort of concern. He's been in his fair share of battle, and so he's less confused and panicked. He can keep collected.

Francis loses it because, I mean, come on, that's his country that he's having to fight to get _into_. He has a right to be pretty damn pissed if he so pleases.

Matthew is beleaguered. Things aren't a blur, like in Alfred and Francis's points of view, but it's not as concise and punctual as Arthur's. He's confused, but not hopelessly so.

So this is D-Day. Next we'll have the Battles for Caen and Port-En-Bessin. I'm going to have to stretch history a bit in order for our boys to meet up, but it won't be too bad, I promise.


	2. Beneath the Grime of 7 June

Hey! Sorry for the long hiatus with this story. Researching for it can be a bit of a pain in the ass. . But I've finally updated!

A special thanks to Koumyouru for the French translations, you rock!

I sincerely hope that you enjoy this story. Sorry for that weird font that popped up when I first published it, trust me, I was annoyed as you no doubt were. Hopefully this one won't do that.

Enjoy!

_Disclaimer: I don't own the Hetalia franchise or any real people mentioned in this work._

* * *

**Beneath the Grime of 7 June**

_"Nuts!" _

**―General Anthony Clement McAuliffe**

* * *

The British Commando Unit that Matthew was now a member of decided to leave Lagrune to the Americans. They moved blithely out on the road, happy to let someone else deal with something, and set a brisk pace for God-knows-where. Matthew wanted to know where he was being dragged to next, so he made quiet little noises of curiosity in the hopes that eventually one of the men would turn around and answer him. Eventually, one did.

"We've been hearing about some trouble over near Caen. Apparently it's a hornet's nest of Jerries," was the curt response. Matthew still didn't understand why they were forcing themselves towards this supposed 'hornet's nest' but he wasn't going to push it. Besides, it was probably the moral thing to do to go and aid those French and British soldiers who were trying, and struggling to achieve their D-Day objective.

The unit toiled on under the heavy sun. It was the middle of summer, and the ocean breezes were being left behind. The sun broiled unforgivingly down on them, and they met with no German resistance. A couple of paratroopers were routed out from undergrowth or popped out with fanatic greetings, but other than that nothing eventful occurred. Matthew cursed the higher-ups for making the privates where such heavy equipment that was meant to keep the cold out and the warmth in. He was unfortunately hot, and the sweat was rolling down his forehead in great teardrops. He was almost out of water, and they seemed to be getting no closer to their destination. The distance wasn't what was bothering him, no he'd been trained for long walking; it was the sun.

When the British commandos &c. in front of him began to slow, Matthew obliged them by doing so as well, his form crouching in copy of theirs. Whatever they were seeing in the front, it was probably a good idea to copy their movements. Again, something he'd been trained to do.

Finally a low, smooth French voice came out from a clump of bushes to their left. A gusto of relief was whirled down Matthew's way, and it soon enveloped him, allowing him to stand a little straighter and breathe a little easier. Violet eyes picked out the man who was now emerging from the bushes.

He was a brilliant looking creature. He had hair that was no doubt as bright as Apollo's would have been, and shining sapphire eyes. His nose was streaked with mud, his face scratched with dried blood coating his cheeks and his uniform. This Frenchman looked like he'd been through hell and back, which all things considered, could very well be likely.

Shivering on his feet, Matthew felt hands shove him forward as the Adonis continued to speak in his native tongue. Stepping into his element as translator with ease, Matthew listened to what the man had to say.

"Notre campement est vers la droite, derrière ces buissons là-bàs. D'ailleurs, je suis Francis, quel est votre nom?"

Matthew shifted uncomfortably at the Frenchman's forwardness. He didn't really want to give his name to someone he barely knew, so he ignored the question.

"Est-ce que... Parlez-vous l'Anglais?" Not for the first time, Matthew was rather grateful that his French teacher had indeed hailed from France and so she was a stickler for speaking the French language the way the peoples who lived in France spoke it. It was both a pain and a relief, as Matthew was five times more likely to use it than he would have been in Canada, where Canadian French was the norm.

"Ah, oui, je choisis simplement de ne pas parler cette crasseuse langue. Français sera toujours le diamant étincelant parmi toutes ces autres pauvres, grossières, languages. Vous ne croyez pas?"

"Er... Je suppose..." was Matthew's response.

And then Francis made a comment completely out of the blue, and it had Matthew's face ripening to a glorious tomato red.

"Tu as de magnifiques yeux, le sais-tu?"

Coughing, Matt rammed his fist onto his heaving chest a couple times. Once he managed to regain control of himself, he studiously avoided Francis's eyes with his own and turned to the British men behind him.

"Their encampment is just to the right, behind that set of bushes," he gestured towards them. "This man's name is Francis. Welcome to Caen," he muttered, feeling the burn of suspicious gazes coursing along his skin. They were wondering why the conversation had taken that long if the only information to get out of it was that the encampment was to the right. But eventually they passed on, slipping behind the leafy green bushes and moving towards the camp.

That left Matthew with Francis.

Gulping, Matt fiddled with his gun, playing his fingers over the smooth fabric strap and gazing about, anything to avoid meeting Francis's eyes.

Eventually the man cleared his throat, effectively winning Matthew's attention.

They continued talking, slipping between French and English as it suited them. Matthew warmed up to Francis, finally introducing himself, relaxing under the light laughter and teasing jokes. It was nice to be able to talk French to someone, even if it wasn't the French that Matthew used in his day-to-day life back in Canada.

It was this light banter that had them both completely unaware of the incoming bullets.

The vicious little things mowed a line across the field, anyone standing was hit at least once. Francis was no exception, as he was knocked into the ground while bullets burrowed in like vampire fangs.

Hissing with a great deal of pain, Francis was the first up, massaging at the bullet wound that had buried itself successfully into the flesh of the underside of his upperarm. He really ought to be grateful for a shot like that; it would leave him still capable of fighting.

Matthew was fine, it seemed as if the machine gun had run out of ammo just before it reached where he was standing. Dropping to his knees next to his newfound French companion, he gently prodded at the punctured area, wincing as he heard Francis curse something out in French.

"Sorry, I just have to…" he trailed off, speaking English as he'd been around so many English speaking people as of late. Calling for a medic, he waited for the man to come trotting up, a white armband with a red cross symbol wrapped about his upper arm. Dropping to the ground next to Matthew, he went straight to work with a clinical efficiency. The bullet was removed, the blood staunched, disinfectant applied, the wound wrapped, and the medic gone all within the span of half an hour.

Feeling guilty, Matthew helped Francis to his feet and took him over to where the encampment was, fighting through the little hole in the Normandy hedgerows. It wasn't a very impressive thing, not meant to be permanent whatsoever. In fact, as they got through the tiny entrance, the men were being lined up to head off to capture a neighboring village of Bayeux. Operation Perch, as it was being called, was the second go at Caen, and evidently a little more thought was being placed into it than there had been for Operation Neptune, which just involved a direct frontal assault of Caen from Sword Beach.

As the camp flew into a flurry of motion, soldiers packing up and getting into their organized rows of platoons and company's, Matthew was forced to let go of Francis, watching out of the corner of his eye as the Frenchman righted himself, a gleam of determination seeming to echo about him. Francis went off to join his own platoon before hesitating a moment, reaching out, grabbing Matthew, and dragging him along with him. Matthew voiced his concerns, as he was pretty sure that Francis wanted him to join him as they went off to fight for Bayeux, but was largely ignored. Getting into line, the first lieutenant eyed Matthew dubiously, knowing that he wasn't originally a part of his platoon, but eventually just shrugged and moved on to the next man. Evidently war wasn't as strict as training camp had been. Shaking off his nerves, Matthew managed a small smile in reaction to Francis's jumped up, pain-influenced grin.

Everyone headed out, British and French alike, to achieve their mission on June 7, the day after D-Day.

The first resistance they ran into was along the road of Tilly-sur-Seuilles. It was the _Panzer-Lehr_ Division and they were fighting like the devil. The town of Tilly-sur-Seuilles was getting increasingly difficult to obtain along their path to Bayeux.

Peeling his lips back from his teeth, Francis fired, deadly accurate, into the throng of tanks and men before him. Echoing shots rang out along the front, and from the buildings bordering the road leading into the town. The place was bristling to the teeth with _Boche._

"Stupid _heinies_," gasped out Matthew from next to him, his fingers fumbling over his gun as he worked to reload it with his sixth round of the day. Blood was dripping down his forehead from where a bullet had scraped the skin earlier in the battle, but the same fervor of war that was in Francis's eyes hung in the Canadian's own violet ones. His fingers, though they slipped and slid, had a solid accuracy and steadiness when actually handling the weapon and its attached trigger. His hair was pasted to his head with sweat, the same curlicue that had first caught Francis's eyes was sticking in a savage attempt to remain airborne, out of Matthew's helmet. Shaking his head, Francis forced his eyes back to the issue at hand, ducking hurriedly as a bullet zipped over where his head had been not seconds before. Heaving in air, taking a moment to breathe, Francis eventually threw himself back over the top of the little roadside ditch they were in, sighting, and taking fire.

After hours of fighting the higher-ups decided that it was time to take a rest for the night. They'd lost a good amount of men that day, and the ones who were still alive were wavering. They needed rest. After a rushed meeting, they agreed to pull a little bit back from where they'd been facing Tilly-sur-Seuilles.

Collapsing down next to Matthew after the small trek backwards, Francis drank greedily from his canteen of water, some of the cool beverage slopping over his parched lips to splatter onto his sweaty, grimy neck. Matthew wasn't fairing much better in the way of cleanliness, his face a mask of mud and blood, his hands a tableau of grease and green grass and leaf stains. There was so much muck under his fingernails that he was pretty sure it'd take him a week to clean them out.

Sitting back with a huff, Matthew ran one sleeved arm over his eyes, failing to scrub the blood from his face, instead somehow adding more to it. His fingers fumbled into a pocket of his uniform, taking out a pair of rounded spectacles and sliding them over the bridge of his nose. Now that he could see properly, Matt turned to Francis, taking in the state of the Frenchman. For someone who'd been shot in the arm earlier in the day, he'd certainly done his fair share of fighting. Managing a wan smile, Matthew decided to initiate the conversation.

"Did you leave any family behind?"

Francis took a moment to answer, his blue eyes glaring solemnly over the dirt packed road. "_Non, mon ami,_" he said, his voice nostalgic, "my family is here, in France. I left them to escape the Nazi's. Who knows what has become of them now." Shame and self-hatred was there, coating over the words with a shallow depression of their own.

Clearing his throat, Matthew regretted asking. His question was stupid, it was fairly obvious where Francis was from. "I'm sorry. I'm sure you're family's okay, though," he said, picking up a stick that was resting beside him and scratching patterns into the dirt. His gun was resting across his legs, inhibiting some of his movements, but Matthew didn't mind. He preferred safety over freedom anyway.

"What about you?" was Francis's question, reversing the spotlight onto an unwilling Matthew.

"Me?" at Francis's 'duh' expression, Matthew flushed, "Well, not any family that I know of, other than my mom of course. She always said that I had a brother, but I don't kow that I ever met him. He's an American, his name's Alfred. That's all I know."

Intrigued, Francis sat up. "Do you think that he is fighting in this war?" asked the man, scanning about the camp as if Alfred would just pop out of the bushes.

Matthew shrugged. "Maybe, I don't know."

They fell into an unidentifiable silence. It wasn't uncomfortable, but they both felt like they should say something else, further the conversation more.

Supper was to be eaten before either of them could resume talking. As everyone else began to open up their rations, they echoed the movements, tearing open one box and shifting through the less-than-delectable food. Wincing, Francis looked longingly at the town of Tilly-sur-Seuilles. "_Mon Dieu, _I hate British food," spoke the man, disgust layering his tongue like a cake.

Chuckling with amusement, Matthew continued to eat his own ration, forcing it down his throat. He hated it, but he understood that it would do him good to have the food in his system. He nudged Francis, indicating with a tilt of his head that the man should eat his food.

Giving Matthew a glare of mixed affection and irritation, Francis swept up his food and began to hurriedly shovel it down, seeming to think that the speed at which he ate it would cancel out the flavor impact.

Once both were done and the empty boxes put up, they stood and made their way to the center of the camp where the other men were settling down. Curling up on the ground with them, sleep took over the two friends. A couple of watchmen had been posted, and everyone was content to catch some shuteye of their own.

Alfred was rudely jostled awake by the other men in his foxhole as the sergeant called out for everyone to 'get their asses up and in line." Grumbling, Alfred did as told, stumbling over to a random position in a random boat platoon. No one much cared whether or not you were supposed to be with them or someone else, men just nodded at you, respect mirrored off of you into their eyes, and accepted you into their ranks. The morning rolled smoothly along, rations eaten, and marching commenced.

They were headed over to join the British at the prearranged meeting point. But Alfred felt that something wasn't right. If they had had difficulty achieving their D-Day objectives, had the British even gotten to theirs? Was Port-en-Bessin in Allied hands, or was it still under the ruthless thumb of Hitler? Eventually Alfred chose to voice these concerns to the Junior Officer in charge of their boat platoon, wincing back as the young man snapped at him before pausing, actually considering what the other American had to say. Perhaps the British could use some reinforcements, especially considering how much of a failure the Airplane bombardment had been on Omaha Beach. The junior officer chose to swing the men in the direction of Port-en-Bessin. There was no way to reach the higher-ups over there, as no one who had come up from Omaha had made it with a radio. Moving quickly and deftly through the hedgerows, they somehow managed to avoid the majority of the German nests hidden amongst the Normandy hedges, which was a fairly impressive feat.

Upon reaching Port-en-Bessin, the men were all forced to hit the dirt as a wide line of bullets ranged over their heads. Inhaling a mouthful of road, Alfred coughed and spat until the majority of it was out of his mouth, glaring over at the uppity junior officer who had made them all face plant in his haste to get them out of the way of the inaccurately fired bullets.

Grumbling, all of the men got to their feet, brushed their hands down their already mucked up uniforms in a vain attempt to clean them, and searched about for where the gunfire had come. Their eyes alit upon the shaking British man who still had his gun pointed at all forty of them. Walking gently forward, Alfred turned to show the American flag decorating a spot on his shoulder, laughing as the boy cried out in joy and dropped his weapon to the ground. He had limp brown hair, excitable green eyes, and pale skin. And when he started speaking, Alfred quickly realized that he wasn't British. He had a Slavic tongue about him, maybe Lithuanian. They were led over to a substantial body of British troops, their leader, C.F. Phillips looked them over with a balm of relief to his normally harder eyes.

The American men were quickly fit into the body of the 47th Commando Unit, their haggard appearances earning them several concerned and curious looks.

Alfred was assuaged by one particularly demanding British man, his piercing green eyes crawling over Alfred's unkempt appearance. "What in the bloody hell happened to you?" the man asked, one hand drifting up to flick a bug off of Al's shoulder.  
"Omaha beach, that's what," sniffed Alfred snootily, his hands shaking a bit before he stuffed them into his pockets.

The man, with a wild unkempt head of blond hair, gave him a dubious look. "Blimey, you Yanks managed to screw that up, didn't you?" he asked, a self-assured smirk crawling over his mouth. Alfred bristled at the insult.

"Well, if it weren't for you fucking Europeans, declaring war on one another all the damn time, we wouldn't have anything to screw up!" he snapped in response.

"Now hold on there, that doesn't mean it's our fault. If you have a bone to pick, go take it up with one of those Jerries over there. They're dying for a fight," responded Arthur, thumbing over his shoulder towards the town center.

Before the argument could be carried on much further, Phillips spoke up over the hubbub and had the men organize themselves before moving out. The American platoon had been meshed into the British force, so they just sorted themselves however they pleased into the different troops. Unfortunately for Alfred, because he'd been standing closer to Arthur, that was the group he was stuck with.

With wary, suspicious gazes cast at one another, Arthur, Al, and the rest moved out. Stepping into the town, everything was early quiet for all of about two seconds before the sounds of bullets screamed by and pelted up little bits of the road in their sloppy landing. The sound of rubble landing on rubble permeated, and whatever organization there had been snapped. Bodies were running about, bullets being fired in response. It looked to Alfred as if they were going to have to fight their way through Port-en-Bessin a house at a time.

Unfortuantely for him, he was right.

They worked their way through houses, losing men at each home. A piece of glass was flying right towards Arthur before Alfred tackled him to the ground, ignoring the flustered anger until he was sure that everything had settled and getting up. He blinked lazily at Arthur as the Englishman lunged forward and gripped the front of Alfred's uniform in his fists, his gun lying forgotten and lonely on the ground. "Who the hell do you think you are, hm?" snapped Arthur, angry but still composed. Alfred sighed and rolled his head back, taking a moment to crack his neck.

"I think I'm your savior, but please, don't be the damsel in distress this entire war. I'm not always going to be around to be your hero."

Arthur's eyes widened before a stinging pain was felt on the side of Alfred's head. Wincing, he pressed a hand to where his hand hair had been pulled. "Ow! What the hell!" he was about to accuse Arthur of unjust harm before he was then pulled to the ground, a bullet burying itself into the wood just behind where his head had been.

"There, you tit, we're even," said Arthur before standing up, brushing himself off, and stepping sharply out of the room and presumably out of the house.

At a loss, Alfred got to his feet and followed after the perplexing man, his footsteps a good bit less precise as Arthur's had been as he crunched glass shards beneath his boots.

And so the day resumed, blood, smoke, tears, sweat, cries for help, gurgles of blood bubbling in a person's throat, shrieks, screams, bones snapping, bodies smacking into the ground, the scrape of uniform against cobblestone, the clunk of boots, sharp instructions, heavy breathing, pasted hair, torn uniforms, pasted blood, shellshock. Soldiers were dropping into buildings, clawing at doors, desperate to get somewhere safe, away from the self-righteous Germans who were so vehemently gunning them down.

By the end of it all, Alfred was sporting a bullet scrape, a piece of glass out of his upper arm, and he'd somehow lost his gun.

Arthur was better off, but not by much. He had a bullet that had been stopped only by the folds of his clothes suspended over his chest. His hand was sporting a nasty slice from his pointer finger down to the heel of his palm, given him from a one-on-one duel with a particularly resilient Kraut. His hair was dyed with blood, a bullet had scraped across his skull before he'd managed to completely dodge its path, and he'd lain with a fallen comrade until the man had passed.

But each and everyone of his injuries weren't new. He'd gotten some similar ones in Africa. He wasn't going to whine about the pain, as Alfred was doing right at that very moment.

They'd called in for the night, no one really being up for tea at the time. Medics were rushing about trying to soothe the men who were dying and doing the best to save those who were only injured. For the three that were with the Commandos and American men, that was a lot of work. Arthur figured he could help them by not creating too much of a fuss when it came to his own injuries.

Alfred wasn't going to do such a thing, though. So Arthur helped him with his, experience from a brief interlude as a medic in a previous battle helping him quickly patch up Alfred's shallow injuries. Once done, and after the boy was quieted with some food, he decided that maybe they'd gotten off on the wrong foot.

"I'm Arthur, by the way."

"Alfred," was spoken through a mouthful of nasty ration food.

Wrinkling his nose, Arthur chose to wait to resume conversation until Alfred was finished with his meal, which didn't take a whole lot of time, incidentally.

"Where in America are you from, Alfred?"

"New Jersey," said Alfred, pride in his tone. "What about you, where do you come from limey?"

"Yorkshire," said Arthur, choosing to ignore the slur.

"Where's that?"

"In England, you dummy."

"Well, duh, I know _that._ Where in England?"

Incredulous, Arthur responded. "Towards the top of it. You're telling me that you've never been given a geography lesson for another country?"

"Yes, should I have been given a geography lesson on another country?"

"Well, as a matter of fact, you should have! I didn't have to ask where New Jersey is because I know the American states." Thoroughly affronted, and angry with Alfred's devil-may-care attitude, Arthur fell silent, stewing in his own little pot of righteousness.

Huffing a sigh, Alfred apologized. "I'm sorry, Arthur." He grumbled, fiddling with his gun.

They were in an uneasy silence until nightfall, Arthur still being uptight about the entire debacle and Alfred not caring to continue apologizing after the initial one.

They fell asleep on different attitudes towards what was really a petty thing.

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So how do we think that went? Was it too fast, too slow? Too poorly written? Not enough detail? Please tell me your thoughts, I treasure each and every review.

French to English Translations:

Our encampment is just to the right, behind that set of bushes over there. I'm Francis, by the way, what is your name?

Do you... Do you speak English?

Ah, yes, I just choose not to speak that filthy tongue. French will always be the glittering diamond amongst all of these poorer, coarser languages, wouldn't you agree?

Er... I guess...

You have lovely eyes, do you know that?


	3. A Murky 12 June

My World War II piece is up, though perhaps a week late. I do apologize for that. I'm sorry.

** 28505**- Thank you for your review. I'm glad that you're so excited for this story. I'm trying as best I can to keep close to historical fact, but fudging comes here and there from either not noticing a certain fact, or completely forgetting that actually happened then, not then, and the meeting and workings of the Hetalia characters into the story. But I'm trying, and thank you for your support. :)

_Disclaimer: I don't own the Hetalia franchise, and none of the real historical facts/names/places mentioned are mine. They are real, and property of themselves/whatever country owns them. So there._

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**A Murky 12 June**

_"They sowed the wind and now they are going to reap the whirlwind."_

**-British Air Marshal "Bomber" Harris**

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Matthew woke up June 8 with a smiling Frenchman gazing down at him with his head perched on the heel of his palm. Yelping and scooting several feet back, Mattie scrubbed at his eyes and glared daggers at Francis. "Jesus Murphy, what?" snapped the French Canadian, his face flushing at the interest in Francis's eyes.

"We are heading out," was the heavily accented English response, and Francis sat up and offered a tin cup of somewhat warm tea. Matthew opted to take an eager gulp of it, needing something to push himself awake other than adrenaline and the fright of seeing Francis _staring_ at him.

Once done with the two-minute tea break, the Canadian stood and slung his pack on his shoulders before fitting his gun comfortably in the crook of his arm; ready to be swung up and fired at a moment's notice. Francis copied him in his way of dress and soon the men marched forward, ducking quickly into one of the troughs on each side of the little road leading into Bayeaux. They were still trying desperately to get a hold of the German-held French town, but it was proving difficult. They weren't making it very far, because of the fortifications all about it, and the elitely trained _Panzer_ troops were vicious in their counterattacks.

More than too many men had been lost, and Francis lived in secret dread that the next man to go down would be his precious Mathieu.

He'd grown attached to the French Canadian as the days passed. They shared countless meals and bonfire spots each night, and had been stuck more than once in the same little ditch, or hiding behind opposite stone corners. Those violet eyes of the younger boy would haunt him as he fell asleep, images of blood spattering that lovely blond hair or gurgling from between those precious white teeth wailed in the shadows every time he slipped off. This terrified the Frenchman, to the point that he refused to sleep without making sure that Matthew was well and truly by his side.

Matthew was going through the same odd sort of hell. While he hadn't grown nearly as attached to Francis as the Frenchman had to him, he still held a good amount of affection for the man he'd met only seven days ago. He gently complied with Francis's demands, bedding down next to the paranoid soldier with all the willingness of a dog to food. He adored the way his name rolled off of Francis's tongue, the way the man would wave his hands about as he told stories, as if trying to craft the characters from the stagnant air surrounding them.

But there was one small problem with Matthew's knowledge of how he cared for Francis.

This French Canadian was not gay, or so he continuously insisted at the disbelieving eyes of some of his closer friends.

Being gay in the 1940s was kind of like hell. You weren't treated right, you were put under treatment in a horrid attempt to 'cure' you of your 'disease.' Gays were ridiculed, laughed at, and treated as inferior if they ever did come out publically with it. And in the military, well, that was another issue altogether. You could be kicked out if you were ever found out to be gay. Given a blue discharge, but discharge was only supposed to happen if you were dishonorable during battle, or some other circumstance.

And so Matthew stayed quiet while Francis babbled about his hometown, Paris. The man must have been pretty rich, or at least his family was, to have lived there as a child, and Matthew was secretly jealous. He'd always wanted to visit Paris, and even if he got to do so now, he'd never imagined that it would be on these circumstances.

They were roused early June 12 to the rough shaking of some of their compatriots. Francis grumbled and swiped at their hands, waving them off before slowly sitting up himself. Matthew was a tad less disagreeable than the French man, but that wasn't saying much. Until he got tea in his system, he was not going to be a happy camper.

One of the blessed cups was shoved into his hands, his fingers curving around the shape of its metal and lifting it eagerly to his lips. It was stinging, burning hot but he didn't care. He'd been through hell worse than a burning tea-cup. Once done with his fill, he passed the cup on to Francis. Francis just continued to pass it left, apparently not that interested in tea.

"Well, off to the slaughterhouse, _oui_?" he asked too cheerfully, standing up and peering about. His long blond hair was pulled back in a low ponytail. He was garbed in the British military uniform of the commando units. His clothes were deeply tan, a tin hat tilting forward on his head. It had a shallow hollow where the top of his head was meant to fit expertly, but it failed in accomplishing that mission. Black boots were adorning his feet, with sandy colored gators wrapping up his ankles. His pack was large, hefty, and completely oversized, but filled with necessities.

And somehow, Francis managed to make the uniform look utterly fabulous.

Matthew, however, faded away in his uniform. It held the same camel color as Francis's, but Matthew had been allowed a beret, which he'd quickly discarded at Juno Beach. His helmet was of more purpose than the fabric, flimsy beret had been. His helmet was covered much like the United States paratrooper helmets were, with camouflage netting. Matthew carried a smaller pack with him, though no less important, and a tommy gun was slung over his shoulder. His violet eyes were the only pieces of him that really stuck out from the bland color of his uniform, as his hair blended into its tone. But he never failed to be noticed by Francis, who seemed to perpetually have an eye on him.

They tiptoed through the streets that they'd managed to gain a hold of. Tilly-sur-Seilles and the later French town of Bayeux were tricky, and dangerous, and they were slowly being pushed back from their occupation. The road was barely captured, and streets in Bayeux were only just progressing.

A bullet ricocheted off a window shelf just above Matthew's head, making him crouch slightly further down and do an awkward sprint to cover behind a corner of a building. Peering out from behind the wall of stone, he ran his eyes along the roof-lines and windows of the buildings on the opposite side of the road, desperate to see who had shot at him.

He caught a flicker of motion in the corner of a window on the far right before another bullet was being fired, and Matthew quickly ducked back behind the corner. He'd lost sight of Francis and the rest of his platoon. He was alone, against an opponent who appeared to have the higher ground.

Casting his gaze along the stone walls of the alley he'd ducked into, his eyes caught upon a door that led into the house on his left. He just had to run across, quickly unlock the door, and get into the building without being spotted.

Easier said than done, as the enemy soldier had targeted him and was keeping a firm eye on the place where he'd last seen the Canadian. Even a smidge of movement would have a bullet through Matthew's head quicker than it would take him to realize his mistake.

The Canadian paused and took deep breaths, forcing air in and out of his lungs. He had to stay calm in this situation—especially this situation. It was quite literally life or death. His grip shifted along his tommy gun, feeling the smooth, deadly combination of metal and wood buzzing with its power in the grip of his fingers. He was going to have to whip around the corner and shoot the enemy soldier blindly, hoping that his bullet rang true. There was no other option.

He began to picture the position of the man in his mind's eye, his eyelids fluttering closed to better recreate the glimpse of the site he'd seen. Furthest, top right window. Gun set on the windowsill. Sighting. If he swung out at this velocity, and shot at that exact point in that turn, he could hopefully end the man before he was taken out first.

Matthew took one more breath before gathering his energy into his muscles, feeling their coiled, trembling readiness shaking beneath his skin. And then he moved, swinging his body quickly out from behind the corner, and moving his gun to the position that he'd memorized in his mind, his fingers reflexively pulling the trigger.

There was nothing but silence after the initial buzz of adrenaline, the surge rippling through his ears like blood through his veins. He collapsed to his knees upon realizing he'd accomplished his first goal, his torso falling forward and forcing his hands to slam into the road beneath him, throwing his tommy gun a bit to the side of where he was crumpling.

Francis came wheeling towards him, panic wide and bright and overwhelming in his eyes.

"Mathieu," he gasped, skidding to a halt next to the man, before copying Mathieu's position. "Are you alright? Have you been hit? Let me see, I can help you. _Mon petit Mathieu," _he cooed, reaching forward to touch his fingers to Matthew's unresponsive shoulder, only to have the boy wrench himself away from him.

"I'm not gay!" he snapped out, frantically, the adrenaline that had been kicked to his brain making him lash out in unnecessary and unexpected ways. "I'm not your 'little Matthew," he spat, more desperate to reassure himself of his heterosexuality than he was to tell Francis that he held no clear interest in the Frenchman.

Francis was about to debate with the French Canadian on that, but opted not to. There would be another time for that conversation, and it certainly wasn't on a battlefield.

"_Bien sûr, vous n'êtes pas_," he soothed, withdrawing his hand and sitting back on his ankles. "But are you hurt, Mathieu?" his tone was a good deal less affectionate now, but not in a naturally callous way. It was as if Francis was sincerely trying to hold himself back from showering praise and adoration down on the man in front of him.

"I'm fine. I'm fine, Francis, I'm fine. And please talk in English. You French people speak French differently than I prefer to." With that, he slowly, haltingly got to his feet, his knees still trembling. But he began his wobbly walk down the cobblestone, his tommy gun having been retrieved from where it had been idly resting on the street.

He felt horrible for saying that to the only man who had seemed to really care about him, but really, what else could Matthew do? He wasn't gay. He wasn't.

He could hear the scuff of Francis's boots behind him, though they eventually lightened into a soundless walk that was essential for zones of combat like this one, Guerilla fighting practically.

Both Francophones were reluctant to talk to one another, and as the day drew on, the men began to lose the meager amount of land they'd managed to gain heading into Bayeux.

They retreated that day weary, sore, and already sick of the war.

Alfred and Arthur had a very different experience of June 12th. It had been only four days since they'd finally captured Port-en-Bessin. It had been four days since Arthur had finally decided to forgive Alfred for not knowing as much about England as Arthur believed he ought to.

Alfred grinned as two grateful town's girls curled up like cats by his side on the sofa that he was occupying at the local bar. They still hadn't moved out from the city, making sure that it was well and truly in Allied hands before moving on to the next one.

Arthur was glaring moodily at the insolent American, arms crossed and disapproval radiating from him in glaring red waves.

Alfred made it a point not to look over at where the British man was standing. His stare always unnerved him, and he felt strangely guilty for how inappropriately he was acting with these two girls. He wasn't even really interested in girls anyway, though he didn't think they weren't attractive, delicious-looking creatures. But men were attractive, delicious-looking creatures too, and perhaps none more so than the Arthur Kirkland that was currently walking his way.

"Alright, it's almost time for curfew, Alfred, get your lazy arse up. Come along," he didn't even wait for Al to follow his order, choosing instead to rather possessively grab his forearm and yank him from the arms of the two French girls. Before he could drag Alfred away, though, the American successfully landed kisses on both of the girl's plump lips.

"See ya soon, right?" he asked, winking, before turning his attention to Arthur. "You're a real wet blanket, ya know that right?" he asked once they'd made it out of the cramped, noisy, and sweaty bar. They'd seen one of the higher-ups bent almost double over his third shot of whiskey for the night, guzzling it down like he wouldn't be able to drink anything else for the next few days. None of them questioned what was making him want to be so intoxicated, preferring to stay blithely unaware of what horrors may or may not lay in store for them.

"Oh, belt up. Those girls only wanted you for sex anyway," snapped the irate Englishman.

Alfred shrugged. "So? Who says I'm looking for a relationship anyway?"

Arthur stiffened slightly, one could tell by the set to his shoulders, straightening out his normally very proper stature painfully more. "So you'd prefer to sleep around and not settle down?" asked Arthur warily, peering at Alfred from beneath bushy eyebrows.

"Well, duh. I mean, why settle down? It limits you, holds you back." The American had an almost painfully callous perspective on love and all its virtues.

Arthur was hardly one to talk about cynicism, however, so he chose not to protest this.

"Well, I suppose that is your decision. But I'm sure their parents are pleased that those girls may return home to them with virtue still intact."

Alfred snorted. "Please, girls who are looking for sex? They ain't virtuous, I can tell ya that now, Artie," he said, dipping into a strange country slang from America's south.

"You're from New Jersey, why on God's green Earth do you speak with such a southern accent sometimes? And my name is Arthur, not 'Artie,'" he drawled sarcastically.

"I haven't lived in New Jersey all my life, you know. Jesus," bristled Alfred, suddenly on a vicious defensive against Arthur's innocent allegation. He ignored, as he generally did, Arthur's reaction to his coined nickname. The Englishman raised his hands in a surrendering gesture.

"Easy there, Alfred, didn't mean any insult."

Uneasy silence lay over their mouths and throats, closing and working them open. They both felt as though they ought to say something, but neither had the guts or the drive to do it.

It wasn't until they reached their camp, which was still rather stupidly positioned outside of the city, did Alfred speak up.

"Are you interested in getting married, Arthur?" he asked.

"I've entertained the thought, yes. I think it would be nice to settle down after this blasted war."

That was as much as would be said on the subject.

They both made their way to one of the tents that had been erected in their camp due to their prolonged stay. The soldiers who had died in the fight for Port-en-Bessin had already been buried, and now everyone in the joined American and British unit were waiting for their next instructions.

On June 17, they would form a major offensive attack on the German stronghold of Douvre-la-Délivrande and successfully capture the garrison. Alfred's four day life of leisure had come to a screeching, painful end.

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Yay for Chapter Three. What did all of you readers think? I hope you liked it, and if not, let me know why. I will try to fix whatever it is that is wrong in the next chapter.

And I'm thinking, maybe we can get some Ludwig/Feliciano points of view in here somewhere, yes?

Have a lovely day.


	4. Schizophrenic Minds

Hello! I'm so sorry that it took me so long to update this thing. I just couldn't find the inspiration for it last week. Hopefully you'll be pleased with this chapter!

_Disclaimer: I don't own Hetalia or any of the real events and things mentioned in this work. SO YEAH._

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**Schizophrenic Minds**

_"Knowing that you're crazy doesn't make the crazy things stop happening." _

**―Mark Vonnegut, _The Eden Express; A Memoir of Insanity_**

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8 July was as uneventful a day as was possible when fighting a war.

Matthew was sipping tea, a nameless brew that a soldier had made for him a few minutes before, when he found out the news.

It was a good thing that the mug he had sipped the tea from was tin, because porcelain would have broken the minute the cup hit the ground. Francis was watching Matthew with a note of concern in the tweak of his eyebrows and the line of his lips.

Matthew had gone ghost white, staring aimlessly at the bullet-marked wallpaper across from where he was sitting on the floor. They had found a vacated and relatively undamaged house to set up shop in, and were thus foraging through the pantry and drawers to find something actually appealing to eat. Francis was next to the shaken Canadian, his body tilting towards the confused man with all the watchful attention a husband would give his wife.

The words echoed in Matthew's head, cruel and biting with their truth. 156 Canadian POWs had been killed. 156. The number echoed harshly in his head, spinning and pounding off of his skull as if by doing so it would get to escape.

Francis looked inquiringly to the man who had delivered the news to his Canadian comrade, and upon being told it himself, he understood why Matthew was reacting in the way he was.

156 of his countrymen were dead.

Francis scooted so that his arm could fit comfortably around Mattie's shoulders, letting the man decide from there whether or not he wanted further contact. Evidently he did, as he quickly turned into the Frenchman, curling his knees to his chest and burying his face in Francis's shoulder, which encourage the other man to sling his right arm over Matthew's shoulder and pull him even further into him, as if by doing so he would be able to protect the fragile soul from any further atrocities that would result from this war.

18 July was the first day of Operation Goodwood. Francis and Matthew were roped into the battalion of men that were going to be carrying it out, partly because they both spoke French and partly because they were two able-bodied soldiers that could be put to good use. The mission was to capture the two remaining German-held portions of Caen that were south of the Orne River.

The Germans were, of course, well prepared for such an offensive attack, even though they were a little dazed from the earlier aerial bombardment.

They managed to fight the on-rushing Canadians off fairly well, though number was drastically beginning to overwhelm them.

Matthew's lips were pulled from the skin of his teeth to create a filthy snarl of grime-caked skin and vengeful purple eyes. He was going to avenge his Canadian soldiers, by taking out a couple of _boches_.

Francis was a little more weary of this manic blood lust that Matthew seemed to hold so dear. He knew what war-craze did to someone, and he made it his goal to keep Matthew from delving into that level of crazy.

But that didn't mean that he wasn't pissed off at the Germans too. They were in _his fucking country_ after all.

So he drove forward with Matthew, forcing the excitable _garcon_ to be smart about his attack. IT would be for the best that neither of them get shot or killed.

So he pulled Matthew behind a tree here, or a piece of rubble there, or a bomb crater to the left, or a morbid pile of dead bodies to the right.

He knew he was pissing Matthew off with how he was micro-managing him, but it was not a major concern for him to address. His goal was to keep them both alive, Matthew's attitude about it be damned.

Francis wheeled out from behind a tree that he'd cached himself behind when he ran smack-dab into a German soldier. Reacting on reflex, and perhaps with a bit of fear fueling his way, he whipped his dagger from his hip and quickly imbedded it in the German's chest. Blood began to bubble from the boy's mouth, for he was just a boy, his eyes glazing over as he slid to the ground, collapsing at Francis's feet.

He was dead.

Trying to remain unshakeable, Francis tugged his knife from its snug position in the cavity of the boy's chest, wiping it shakily off along his pants legs before returning the weapon to its sheath at his hip.

His hands were unable to hold the gun after word, and he soon found that he'd sunk to the ground next to his victim. He was in the same state of shock and panic that Matthew had been a few days earlier, though this one could not possibly have been worse-timed. They'd moved on from offensive maneuvers to defensive ones, as Panzer divisions tried desperately to retake any land they had lost in the initial attack.

Francis curled up, clenching his fingers in his long blond hair and pressing his forehead forcefully in the dirt. The zipping sound of bullets snapped around him, accompanied by the chug of tanks and commands tossing through the air.

He wanted everything to just shut up, for all of it to stop. He wanted to be in peace, to realize that he had just killed a fourteen year-old. A german, granted, but a fourteen year-old nonetheless.

The boy's dead eyes stared benevolently at him, his parted mouth still marked with dried blood. His body was fresh, so the skin was still warm. He looked like he could be alive. Francis's hands scrabbled to the kid's throat, searching for something that he could use to recognize his name, or perhaps where he came from. Anything, anything, anything, anything.

He found a tag around the boy's throat, sliding along a chain. On the other side of the tag was a number, the child's blood type, and his unit. Francis would never get to know the name of the boy that he had killed face-to-face.

He let the tag slide from his fingers as he leaned away from the corpse, his blue eyes slowly crawling up from the lifeless form to meet the eyes of yet another German soldier.

This one didn't make any violent motion. He lowered his gun, which had been aimed right between Francis's eyes. There was something in those eyes, something haunted, that told him this man was not malicious. He was not going to be a threat for a little while yet.

Aware that there was a language barrier, he made a motion with his head for Francis to scat. Leave the corpse to him, the blond-haired, blue-eyed boy would get a funeral worthy of an élite soldier.

Francis understood this sign language and he slowly backed up, getting to his feet and collecting his gun from where it had fallen to the ground. He maintained steady eye contact with the German until he was a sufficient distance, and then he turned and fled from the man.

Matthew said nothing at Francis's flustered appearance, just cast him a quick look, checking for injury, before focusing back on the task at hand. He had vengeance of his own to exact.

Francis was not a very effective soldier for the rest of the day, and by the time the fighting ended on 20 July, he was tapped out and dying to hide away from the world. He wanted to go to his home, to wrap himself in the warm and comforting and _familiar_ smell of baguettes wafting from a bakery across the way. He wanted to be surrounded by the bustle that was Paris, to gaze at the magnificent lights that so often trellised up the Eiffel Tower. He wanted to feel the familiar unevenness of cobble stones, to experience the rich smell of French air in Normandy without gunsmoke poisoning it. He wanted his old life back, and he was becoming more and more aware of that impossibility.

Matthew was in the same boat as Francis at about that time. He was feeling worn down. They'd lost so many men in their campaign for Caen. Roughly 50,000, which the higher-ups claimed was better than the predicted amount of 60,000. But it wasn't better by much, and those were people. People who were now well and truly dead.

Mattie and Francis found themselves gravitating towards one another, to take comfort in their shared language and the gentle comfort of one another's hugs and hushed whispers.

Matthew, though he wasn' t entirely willing to admit it, was beginning to fall in love with Francis Bonnefoy.

Arthur Kirkland was no pushover. Everyone knew that. But no one expected him to be so harsh on the young American soldier that he always seemed to be around.

The other soldiers duly noted the way that Arthur would yell or snap at Alfred if the guy began to slack off during their training. They were on reserve, and would replace No. 46 in a week. So the commanding officers and other higher-ups were ensuring that the soldiers remained in prime condition, and that involved training.

When Alfred snapped, no one was surprised. It was more of a when than an if, after all. No one can undertake so much verbal abuse, not even the oblivious and delightfully ignorant American.

"Arthur, _what the hell is wrong with you!?_" cried out Al, lunging away from the Englishman's sharp words that were slapping at his push-up form. He was sick of being treated like some incapable child. For fuck's sake, he was a United States soldier, not a two-year old who knocked over its carefully constructed block tower.

"Oh, do calm down, overreaction is never becoming," sighed Arthur, rolling his eyes and returning his focus to his own exercise. The only change in his demeanor could be read into the stiffening of his muscles, and that was so faint that Alfred normally wouldn't have noticed it, if he hadn't been so ridiculously pissed off at the nitpicky Briton.

"No," he said firmly, one hand hooking into the back collar of Arthur's uniform and tugging the British soldier to his feet. "We are going to fucking talk about this."

Arthur groaned and ran a hand through his rat's nest hair. "Fine. Whatever is the matter?"

Alfred was incredulous, and at a complete loss of what to state from there. "I-you-er…" he trailed off, confusion crinkling his brow before he collected himself. "You are an asshole." He said finally, without waver or inflection in his voice.

A soldier who was doing push ups close to where their standoff was coughed out laughter under his breath.

A harsh glare was thrown his way by a pair of acid eyes.

Alfred's dog tags jangled nervously as the man shifted from one foot to the other, anxious to know what was bothering his British companion so much so that he had to take it out on Alfred.

Arthur watched Al for a moment before sighing, apparently having noted the steely determination in those eyes. He was not going to get out of this situation without forking out some answers.

"Oh, very well," he grumbled, crossing his arms huffily and a little protectively in front of himself. "I do not want to see you die, alright? So I figure that if I can make sure that you are in the best shape you can be, than you won't." He cast his gaze to something somewhere to the right of Alfred's face, reluctantly to actually meet the person in question's eyes. It was too painfully awkward to initiate any such intimate form of communication as eye contact.

Alfred chewed over this answer a minute before his lips widened into an annoyingly shiny, obnoxious grin. Americans in their dental hygiene, Arthur would never understand them.

"Well, if that's the case, than don't worry about it dude! I'm the hero, so I can't be killed." He puffed out his chest, filled to the brim with pride.

Arthur had never wanted to punch the other man's lights out more so than in that moment. This man, this _child_ was so obnoxious it made him want to hit his head on something.

He settled instead for slapping the back of Alfred's head. "Whatever, that does not mean that you are without a need for training. So get your arse back into push up position, we have some physical fitness to work on."

With that conversation semi-over, both of the duo ducked their heads and diligently resumed their working out. None of the observers had called them out on the chit-chat they'd been so blatantly doing earlier, no doubt because they had a feeling it was over something important, and because it was hardly as if they were still in rookie boot camp. These men knew what it was like to be in a combat zone. This wasn't about focus, just about keeping in shape.

Their workout clothes were comfortable, and a lot more breathable than the stuffy uniforms they were normally forced to wear. Those things were designed to be resistant to all types of shit, and at the same time it was susceptible to a lot of it too.

Short black shorts and white shirts were what they were normally told to wear. Every once in a while, they would be ordered to don their combat uniforms, but this was rarely; the officers themselves were uncomfortable in the outfits that had brought death to their colleagues and friends and fellow soldiers. Those uniforms would and could remind people of the battlefield, and more than one soldier had collapsed with the early signs of shell-shock upon putting the dreaded clothing back on.

Alfred was no exception. Where Arthur was rather cold and emotionless when he wanted to be, Alfred had no such control over his own emotions. He was as volatile as one could get, and his hormone levels would jump rapidly as a result of this. One minute he would be laughing and grinning with some other soldiers of the battalion, and the next he would be on the ground, scrabbling at his ears and groaning about making the voices go away.

It was kind of really terrifying, and most soldier's left Arthur to handle the strange, demonized American.

Whenever it was particularly horrible, Alfred wouldn't even let Artie touch him. He would hiss and warn the Briton to go away, to not even come _one more fucking step _closer or _he would fucking cut him in half_. Arthur, of course, never pushed it in these moments of defensive vulnerability. He knew a dangerous soul when he saw one, you don't fight in wars to come away with expertise in fields that you never had even heard of before enlisting.

Dealing with people who had schizophrenia was one of those.

Alfred was unwilling to acknowledge that he was abnormal, so to speak. He didn't want to admit to another person that he heard voices, and they weren't just his own. He didn't want to admit that it was so debilitating, to hear one thing and then another and another and another and another emanating inside of his hand, telling him to do that but wait! don't and then telling him to listen here or not listen there or go this way and then go back to where you were and then reading off useless facts and so much _noise_. It was merciless and just never over and Alfred couldn't admit to the fact that he suffered from it.

Alfred could not admit that he saw hallucinations, though to him they were real, of people dying, of himself dying, of a bomb hitting the tent, of a Krauts scaling the horizon, of any number of horrifying, war-fueled images.

Arthur felt sympathy, felt pity, but did his best not to show it. People, especially soldiers, really hated pity. That he knew for a fact, as he experienced it frequently as well.

Most of the time Alfred handled it pretty well. But every once in a while, he would go a little off base with something, or he'd start to hyperventilate, or begin to talk back to those voices.

Arthur was always there, as much as he could be anyway, to bring Alfred back to himself, to bring him back to camp and to the men and to the gun that he was currently pointing threateningly at Arthur himself.

"Alfred," said the Briton, his heart in his ears, thundering through them and bringing an annoying, radiating heat to his cheeks. "Alfred, it's me. It's Arthur. I promise that I'm not going to hurt you. Alfred, Alfred," he repeated Al's name over and over and over, desperate to reach the terrified person within. The one who no dobut was thinking that everything was a conspiracy. They were practicing alone a distance from the main camp, so it wasn't as if someone could come and help Arthur out of his current predicament. Though, that was probably for the best, as Alfred would surely be killed for turning his gun on a fellow soldier.

Arthur tried again to reach the clueless man that he knew was down there. The voices were overwhelming Al by now, no doubt about it. He was only ever this unresponsive when he couldn't hear anyone but the other occupants of his mind.

"Alfie…" murmured Arthur then, taking the nickname approach.

Miraculously, it worked. Alfred's gun faltered a moment before crashing to the ground and scooping up a good clump of Earth upon impact.

Alfred's hands were shaking, as was his head as he struggled to remember and figure out what in the hell was going on.  
"Artie?" he asked, tone heart-achingly vulnerable.

"Alfred, good God Alfred," said Arthur then, stepping forward to hesitantly and carefully collect the trembling American into his arms. Alfred acme willingly, ducking his head into Arthur's shoulder and letting himself lean into the strong, capable Englishman.

Neither of them said a word. Arthur knew what had actually happened, and he had an idea that Alfred was figuring it out for himself.

Arthur wouldn't acknowledge that he was quivering. He wouldn't, because he needed to be the strong one at that moment. Alfred needed him to hold him up.

SO he stood there, rubbing one hand up and down Alfred's back in a comforting gesture that spoke a thousand times more than words could.

He didn't know where this had come from. He'd known Al a good few weeks by then, and this problem hadn't shown itself until recently. Which meant that the experiences he was catching now were triggering that gene misalignment in his brain.

His environment was bringing a darker side of him more into the light. And it was up to Arthur to help the young man learn how to control it.

Arthur led Alfred soundlessly back to camp, and they both curled up in their respective cots upon reaching their cabin. They'd been housed together because the higher-ups had noticed how close they were compared to the rest of the soldiers.

Arthur wasn't expecting Alfred to climb into his cot five minutes later, but he made no protest. He slid his arms around Al's broad shoulders and moved over slightly so the bigger guy could fit.

He fell asleep, as did Alfred, to the steadiness of one another's breathing.

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Enjoy your Wednesday/Thursday/whatever day you read this.


	5. Those Who Suffer are Rarely Remembered

And I'm back. So sorry for how long it took to update this. This chapter was kind of a bitch. So, here we are. I hope you like it. :)

_Disclaimer: I do not own the Hetalia franchise/other things/people mentioned in this work, nor do I gain any profit from this work._

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**Those Who Suffer are Rarely Remembered**

_"Never in the field of human conflict was so much owed by so many to so few."  
_

**―Winston S. Churchill**

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Ludwig spent D-Day grappling in hand-to-hand combat with different Allied soldiers. He didn't know if the man was British, American, Canadian, French, and Brazilian. He would never know, as he finally got in a killing strike, thrusting his knife into the other man's vulnerable chest before quickly hopping out of the way of the now desperate swings.

Ludwig hated it. He hated killing people. But it was for the sake of the Fuehrer, so that was okay. He was doing the right thing; he was helping to cleanse the world of these misguided men. But that didn't make it too much easier. There's nothing easy about hearing the crack of bone as a knife buries itself in someone's arm or leg or torso or forehead. There is nothing easy about the smell of rotting, swelling bodies. There is nothing easy about taking weapons from the dying or the dead, or digging in the pockets of fallen comrades for unused bullets.

His battalion had finally been allowed to wear their SS-Runes on a black backdrop as opposed to their earlier red, and were therefore fully integrated into the SS. Everyone was immensely proud of themselves; being so recognized by _Reichsführer-SS_ was an honor.

A bullet pinged against Ludwig's badge, ricocheting off of the metal to thankfully fly in a direction opposite from Lud's body. Reacting on instinct, the German soldier slid his Luger from the holster hanging at his right hip and fired expertly at the offender's heart, silencing yet another life in the span of just two minutes.

Feliciano, an Italian soldier that Ludwig had gotten to know quite well over the months, was beckoning at him from behind a tree. Ludwig's steel blue eyes narrowed at the obvious cowardice. Disgusting. But before he could go and drag the _Feigling_ out from his hiding place, he found himself being dragged _towards it_ by none other than the Italian himself.

Growling with rage he snapped his hand from the other man's insistent grip and glared at those innocent amber eyes. "What are you doing!" he snapped in German, understanding that Feliciano would be able to understand him. The boy was smart, even though he didn't look or act it. He was a translator for the fighting force, actually, helping by keeping tempers soothed between the Italian and German sides of the army.

"Shut up!"

Ludwig was surprised into silence at Feliciano's insolence. He was an SS soldier, not just a regular German; he deserved more respect than he was being given at the moment. Through this quietude, he was able to hear the slow churn of dirt and rocks beneath tank treads. They were brining their big guns in, to the surprise of no one, but they were waiting to find a suitable patch of Germans before they fired. Feliciano peered stealthily around the tree trunk before whipping his head back behind the obstacle.

Ludwig was uncomfortably aware of his proximity to Feli, a fact that he really didn't want to admit to. He wasn't gay, he wasn't a homosexual, and it was just awkward to be that close to another guy, right? Gays were horrible, disgusting creatures intent on poisoning and taking the world for their own nefarious purposes. He wasn't one of _them_.

Feliciano's whispered, Italian-accented German interrupted Ludwig's thought process. "If we're quiet, we can reach the main line before the tank gets there. We can warn everybody, and then everybody can retreat and survive!"

Ludwig scoffed and shook the Italian's grip from his bicep. "Retreat is ridiculous. Who are you fighting for, Feliciano, us or them?"

With that, he turned away from the tree and began to creep along, his eyes cutting smoothly from side to side beneath his helmet. The earth was solid beneath his boots, allowing for a good grip so that he could move without too much rustling. He stooped to collect a _Stermegewehr 44 _from the fingers of a fallen German before continuing on his path. Feliciano was following, a suspicion that was confirmed when Ludwig checked over his shoulder for the goofy Italian. The older man's idea was a mix of good and bad. Ludwig would of course tell the other German troops of the advent of tanks into this battle, but no one would turn tail and run. They were _Sturmtrupper_, and they weren't cowards.

He lazily shot an unsuspecting British soldier as he passed by him, the uniform giving the young man's nationality away. Ludwig could hear the sharp intake of breath from Feliciano, who was still pedaling behind him, but said nothing despite a small twinge of shame. It was war, what the hell else was he supposed to do?

Ludwig was the first to arrive at the line of German soldiers. It had started coalescing as more and more of them straggled backwards from Rome, giving up ground begrudgingly. The news was quickly passed up the chain of command, and measures were quickly undertaken to prevent a breakthrough.

The defense had recently been renamed the Green Line, though its original title was the Gothic Line. Steadily, machine gun nests and observation posts and bunkers and casemates were bleeding into the Italian soil, digging into the heart of Italy to leave a final German mark on her once pristine, beautiful Earth.

Ludwig took the waiting period as a chance for a breather. He had sprinted at least two miles to reach his fellow soldiers, and he was a little out of breath. Feliciano wheeled in a couple of minutes later, not even breathing heavily. The lazy Italian had probably paused to take a walk halfway through the running. It was something that Italians would do, and Feliciano was probably the epitome of Italy itself.

Ludwig watched as Feliciano peered over at where he was with his fellow Waffen-SS soldiers and quickly turned the opposite direction, making his way to a clump of chattering Italians. Sighing, Ludwig peeled himself away from his comrades and made for Feliciano. The guy had helped him, and the least Lud could do was go and thank him.

He felt distinctly out of place as he entered the group surrounding Feliciano. The little spark seemed to be more than a little popular in the Italian side of the army, judging by the three or four Italian soldiers who were vying for his attention. Clearing his throat awkwardly, Ludwig waited for Feliciano to separate himself from the others.

"Danke," said Ludwig then, one hand moving up to scrub his palm along the back of his sweaty, dirt-caked neck. Feliciano stared at him through wide, amber eyes before grinning and speaking in a spatter of Italian.

Ludwig could only assume that the other man was saying 'you're welcome' but at that point, it wasn't important, because Ludwig found his eyes wandering to his counterpart's lips, watching with an avid interest as they formed the separate Italian words that made up the Romantic language. Feli's hands fluttered animatedly around his face, illustrating whatever story it was that he was telling.

Ludwig swallowed nervously, not aware of the red tinting his cheeks until Feliciano's excited story stopped and the Italian cocked his head confusedly in Ludwig's direction, gesturing uselessly to his own cheeks in a question.

Blushing further, Ludwig moved his face to the side so that Feliciano could no longer see it straight on, muttered some form of a further thank you, and stormed away.

He shoved past the Italians with all the patience of a self-righteous German, which he supposed he was. There was another Italian that looked suspiciously like Feliciano, but had darker hair that Ludwig gave a wide berth. This was getting dangerous, and ridiculous. He didn't even really know Feliciano. This was stupid.

He couldn't help it if the Italian was attractive. He couldn't help it if he wanted to just kiss him, as awkward and awful as that sounded. He wasn't gay. No.

Before he could think much more on it, however, the sound of the tanks cracking across the ground evaded the chattering space. Everyone immediately turned to business.

They survived the tank attack, mainly thanks to some crazy Italian interference and solid German engineering, both of which gave their parts in the equal amounts of tank destruction and further infantry fighting.

By nightfall, both sides were exhausted, and both sides settled down. The Green Line had bent under the pressure, but didn't break.

Ludwig retired further back in the line, the pale moonlight glossing over the SS badge adorning his uniform, sliding along the smooth metal of his rifle, and reflecting off of his teeth, hair, and eyes.

He managed a wan smile at a fellow officer before settling down with nothing but the stars for company, a silence that lasted all of two seconds before Feliciano was there, burying his head in Ludwig's arm and generally disturbing the earlier peace.

The flustered German didn't quite know what to o, and before he could begin to bluster and wave the Italian away, he realized that Feli had fallen asleep.

Too nervous to wake the other man up, Ludwig locked his jaw and stared up at the sky, unable to be lulled into such an easy slumber. However, as the night drew on, Feli's soft snores eventually rocked Ludwig to sleep.

Neither were they to know that this was a scenario to be repeated for many days to come.

**.||.**

Francis woke up coughing. He'd accidentally inhaled some of Mattie's hair, and it startled him awake. Once done with his coughing fit, he glanced guiltily at the sleepy violet eyes of the Canadian curled up next to him. The sun was just breaking the horizon, peeling through the separate, dirty blond strands of Matthew's hair and painting his cheekbones and shoulders in its yellow glow. Francis ducked his head and pressed a kiss to the Canadian's forehead, understanding that the move would be unappreciated but not being particularly bothered.

Matthew didn't say a word, assumedly because he'd fallen back asleep. Francis decided to let him catch a few more minutes, they would need to be up soon anyway. It was time to continue the Battle for France.

The officers made their way from sleeping body to sleeping body, nudging and kicking depending on their affection for the person. Luckily for Francis, it was a fellow French commando who woke him up, so he got a gentle shaking, and the man who had done the waking said nothing in regards to the position of Francis and Matthew. There were some things that just weren't questioned, and that was one of them.

After signifying that he was awake, and after the officer had moved on to the next person, Francis began the grueling task of waking Matthew, a surprisingly difficult ordeal that he had to do every morning. He was getting pretty good at it. He sat up and nudged a passing soldier's ankle, holding out his tin mug for the guy to take and fill with tea over at the early morning fire. Once this was done, he turned his attention to Matthew and began to stroke his fingers along the Canadian's sleeping face, running them through his hair before tugging gently at the curlicue sprouting from the rest of Mattie's rumpled hair. This almost always got the other man up, usually with a flustered gasp and red cheeks.

Matthew glared irritably at Francis, thoroughly disgruntled at the very morning-person way of his companion. It wasn't until the mug, with lukewarm tea inside, was plopped into his hands did the huffy exterior begin to melt. His helmet was sitting by his side, a small dagger next to it. Matthew planned on shaving before they set out again, as he had managed to gain slight stubble since his last shaving session, and he was getting tired of it.

Francis noted the helmet, and the dagger, but said nothing, He, personally, took great care to maintain his beard, if one could even call it that.

The morning was gone quickly, and soon they were on the move. Francis's head was upright and alert, his blue eyes sweeping over the landscape to drink in the familiar _frenchiness_ of it all. This land, this country, was ten times more beautiful than England, and Francis would stand by that statement to his grave.

Matthew, unlike his companion, walked with his head bowed and his eyes locked on the faded black of his combat boots. The dust of their road was caking the material, and he was fast becoming aware of the true weight of his pack, which had been stuffed with several yummy foods from the houses that had salvageable items in Caen. But Mattie didn't complain, and whenever Francis asked how he was doing, he would always respond with a soft "Fine," and a smile. The Frenchman was none the wiser.

They all flattened to the ground as gunfire echoed from a nearby hedge. A couple of men were hit, but they just gritted their teeth and crawled into the ditches along each side of the dirt road, making no move to try and pull the bullets from their arms and legs. Once in those safe havens, medics crouched forward and made their way to the wounded. Francis searched the surrounding foliage for the perpetrator, intent on finding him and annihilating him.

Francis fired automatically at the silhouette appearing in a small hole in the hedge. However, before he could revel in taking down a German soldier, a tank began to fire on their position. It was a _Tiger_, and it had been disguised back in one of the many thick, Normandy hedgerows snaking across the landscape. The men panicked, and cries of pain and terror permeated the air as the rounds from the tank smashed into the little runnels that the French and British and Canadian soldiers were hiding in. Francis lost sight of Mattie, but before he could go and try to find the Canadian, he was pushed through a merciful hole in one of the hedges, and tumbled back into the center of a little clearing formed by four different walls of the _Bocage_. Francis lay there a moment, stunned and out of breath, before slowly sitting up, his gun in the ready position as he scanned the surrounding foliage for any German guns glinting in the shadows. Single bullet marks pinged into the dirt to the left and right of the Frenchman, somehow managing to miss him. Locating the shooter was easy—there was only one—but taking him out wasn't. It took several shots before he managed to finally catch the crafty German. Even with the knowledge that he'd managed to remain uninjured, Francis was well aware that other German troops may have heard the exchange of gunfire and could very well be heading his way. He needed to move, and fast. Going back out the way he'd come in wasn't an option; there was a tank there, and besides, dead bodies were blocking the opening now. He was going to have to cut his way through one of the _bocages_ and find his way out from there.

He pushed the issue of losing Matthew to the back of his mind. Survival was more important at the moment, for both of them, and he was just going to have to pray that Mattie was okay.

He made for the part of the hedge that the German gunman had been. Surely, if he had been able to shoot, it was relatively thin at that spot, in addition to there already being a tunnel cut through the center of the hedge, making getting out of the square that Francis was stuck in a good deal easier. It took some hacking with a knife at his belt, a good deal of it, before he was finally into the little recess that the _alboche_ had hidden himself in. Sur enough, there were little trails peeling off to the left and right of the position, assumedly into places further along the German network, but Francis had no interest in following the pathways. Safety was the primary concern, and safety could easily be found in numbers. So he continued his hacking into the opposite wall, his speed a good deal more feverish due in large part to the fact that he was now in German territory, however small the tract of it may be, and they could come wheeling around the corner at any point.

Once the hedge was thin enough for him to just shove himself through, he crashed through into another line of hedges, though this one had a tiny slot in it that was taken up by a machine gun. Swearing, Francis immediately plastered himself to the ground and listened to the bullets mowing over his head. Before he had to raise his rifle to attempt to take out the machine gunner, however, the task was already finished for him. Peeking over his arms, Francis was greeted with the sight of Matthew. A broad grin slipped on his face and he immediately hopped to his feet before fleeing over to the Canadian and wrapping him in a suffocating hug.

"Mathieu!" he cried, nuzzling his nose into the other man's uniform-clad shoulder. Matthew was bemused by the display, and tried to pull away after awhile, but Francis was having none of it. "Where did you go off to, mon petit lapin?"

"Well," said Mattie, his voice still as soft and shy as ever, "after you disappeared, I was forced to run. There were too many bodies in the little runnels on each side of the road, so I got up and followed the hedge line until I found that machine gun nest that you were about to be killed by," he shrugged nonchalantly, as if not quite aware of the danger that he'd put himself in by standing up. Francis said as much, but received no concern from the young Canadian.

"I never said that it was easy, and it took a while for me to get down here because I had to keep ducking."

Francis eventually let Matthew go and the two turned their attention to finding the rest of the commando group. No shouts rang out in the silence; that would drag too much attention to the speaker. Obviously the hedges were replete with hostile Germans, who very clearly held the upper hand. Francis was exhausted. He wanted to cry, he wanted to give up, just throw himself down and throw a fit. God was not smiling upon him today, that was for sure.

But the war would wait for no one, and Francis was certainly no exception. Groaning, he took Mattie's hand and began to wearying task of tracking down the other men who had gotten themselves lost in the hedges, his gun held in the crook of his right elbow as his eyes slid from hedge to hedge, wary of sleek metal and moving shadows.

**.||.**

Arthur was dutifully cleaning his rifle when Alfred plopped down next to him. Something was clearly bothering the American, as he remained uncharacteristically silent, as if he were waiting for Arthur to ask him what was wrong.

Arthur opted to oblige him. "Alfred, what's the matter?"

Alfred kicked at a piece of stone that had fallen from the corner of the decrepit stone building they were leaning up against. "I don't know," he said moodily, glaring out at the street and the passing soldiers. They had been moved to replace No. 3 Commando in the village of _Le Plein_, and it was a rather boring assignment in total. Arthur was at his wit's end and they weren't even halfway through the issue, and he knew for a fact that they would probably be pulled into reserve again anyway. It was a dreary thing, really. Plus, there were no exciting things in _Le Plein_, just some broken-down buildings and a few stagnant, stubborn, old French people. Old men had shouted at the soldiers from upper story windows, crowing about their glory days on the Somme in World War I or some other magnificent battle in the trenches. Arthur never took any of them seriously.

"You'll be alright, then," was Arthur's offhand response to Alfred's pouting, not quite aware of the effect that his careless words were having on his companion.

Alfred reeled as if he'd been shot. "What do you know, Arthur? What do you know about what I'm going through? Damn Limeys, thinking y'all know everything," he grumbled, his mood souring even more if that was possible.

Arthur's temper rose to match Alfred's own. "Oh, and of course, you're the only one on this entire planet that has ever truly suffered, Alfred," his voice was scathing to his own ears, but he didn't care. This insolent little American was going to be taught a lesson, whether he liked it or not. Besides, there wasn't much else to do.

"What about the men here who won't be returning home to families, Alfred? What about the men who will die in the next twenty-four hours, the ones who are already dead, the ones who _families_ are dead? Would you stop being so bloody selfish for once and look at the people around you?" Arthur got to his feet, his face slightly red with the force of his ire. He was trembling, and before Alfred could respond, he turned crisply and stalked away, shoving past an old army buddy from Italy who tried to talk to him.

The man turned, askance, to Alfred. He had an eyebrow raised and a look of suspicion in his brown eyes. Al knew what was being asked, and he sighed. "Dude, all did was complain. I didn't fucking ask for a lecture about how some people lose their families."

The man stiffened at that, his eyes narrowing accusingly. "You don't know. Of course you wouldn't." At Alfred's perplexed visage, he sighed and elaborated. "Arthur's parents were killed in the York bombing on 29 April, 1942. His three brothers are missing in action. I suggest not complaining about anything silly around that one, he has more to whinge about than you do." With that being said, he continued along his way, well aware that he oughtn't have told Alfred such personal information about Arthur, but understanding that it was too late to take back the words. Besides, Arthur was too stubborn for his own good. He would likely keep getting mad at Alfred for being ignorant about a topic of which he didn't even know existed.

Al was quiet after that, his fingers running over the scratchy material of his uniform, his blue eyes gazing unblinkingly across the street. Guilt was eating at him now, and his fingers began to rapidly work into his kneecaps his shoulders bunching and un-bunching with his nerves and self-hatred. He was so stupid sometimes, it hurt. Al got to his feet and went to find Arthur. He had some apologizing to do.

After a good thirty minutes of searching and asking and asking again, he located Artie sitting on a ruined stonewall on the village's perimeter. The man's boots were kicking out from the wall before crashing back to click on the weather stone, the action repeating itself a thousand times over in a methodical rhythm.

Alfred climbed up next to him and settled himself, saying nothing for a minute or so, just gazing out at the green farmlands, the black craters like chicken pox on clean skin. Hedges rolled along in squares and rectangles. Way out in the distance, there was the sight of smoke, no doubt from some village fire or other, or perhaps from a battle. Alfred had heard about the misery of the hedges, how Krauts were hiding in there like mice in basements, how they would swarm out at the slightest sound or sight of a British, American, Canadian, or French soldier. He had heard of the exhausting effort it took to just flush all of the Huns out of the rows of hedges, one bochage at a time.

Alfred shivered, and thanked God that he wasn't forced to be a part of that.

"I'm sorry," he said then, "I was stupid, and rude, and inconsiderate, and I'm sorry."

Arthur let the silence fall between them. The man always had liked to abuse his power, and now was no exception. "Who told you?"

"Huh?" asked Alfred, sweat breaking out on his forehead. Was it a bad thing that he knew? Should he or should he not tell Arthur? The man was volatile, and Alfred didn't want to get pushed off the wall.

"Who told you about my family?"

"Er… I, uh…" at Arthur's irritated expression, Alfred sighed and relented. "Tom," he admitted, fingers digging into the rough stone beneath him. A harsh wind nipped around them, surprisingly cold for the summer conditions that they were supposed to be in. Alfred hunched his shoulders in a sad attempt at defense, though whether or not this defense was for Arthur or the wind, he wasn't sure.

"Do you understand what I mean when I say that you are far from the worst off in this war?" asked Arthur, his own fingers working at the mash of stone beneath them. Alfred nodded his head minutely, for once opting to not say anything that would offend the other half of their duo.

The faint sound of gunfire was apparent as they remained seated there, that vexing wind pulling at their uncovered heads and inciting shivers as it brushed its cold fingers along the backs of their necks.

Arthur, in an uncharacteristic display of affection and vulnerability, leaned over to rest his head on Alfred's left shoulder, his green eyes peering morosely out at the bare land before him, once rich in cows and sheep and goats and pigs. Once vibrant with life and the natural sounds of animals. There was nothing now but the sound of gunfire, the whistling of shells, the howl of harsh wind, the sound of shutters closing.

A storm was on its way. Alfred wanted to get more information from Arthur, but he knew that pushing the Briton any farther could result in a black eye or a busted lip, and Alfred valued his looks more than he would like to admit to, so he opted to not pester the Brit for any more information. Arthur would open up in due time, and it was Alfred's job to just wait it out wit him.

After a few minutes of sitting there in their hesitant silence, Alfred yelped and jerked backwards, effectively knocking himself off of the wall. Quickly, he whipped his rifle around and aimed it at the landscape, his blue eyes narrow and harsh and practically inhuman.

Arthur gazed at the American with bemusement and hopelessness. Alfred wasn't going to be easy to fix. The boy was fast losing himself to nightmares.

"Alfred, there are no Krauts. You're okay, there's nothing out there to hurt you." He said, turning his body so he could hop off of the wall and carefully approach the American, hands raised appealingly in the air. Alfred wasn't aiming at him this time around, thank God, but he wasn't exactly at ease either. A man that tense was a danger to himself and his fellow soldiers.

It was of utmost importance that Arthur get Alfred to calm down.

"Alfred," he said again, stepping around to a lay a firm hand on the American's shoulder. "Alfred, look at me." Eventually, Al did, his blue eyes wide and terrified. He knew then that what he'd just seen was not real.

"Arthur," he said, his voice nearly cracking.

Arthur said nothing, just took the rifle from Alfred and pulled him into a hug. He felt like he was giving away more of those than was good for him lately, but that was okay. Alfred could use a good hug or two; the boy was too innocent for this life.

How ironic that one so broken was leaning on the person who had been responsible for the loss of his entire family.

His fingers fisted in the back of Alfred's uniform as he pulled the American covetously closer.

* * *

The end. For now.

Did I get some of the characterizations right? Am I making sense? How do you all think this story is coming along?

Please let me know by reviewing, they are always appreciated.

Have a lovely day!


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